had he cared to read them, but now and then a paper drifted his way. In one of them he read the announcement of his engagement to Clare: "Mr. and Mrs. Gustavus Hamel"—in the language of the society editor—"announce the engagement of their daughter, Miss Clare Hamel, to Mr. Thomas McNair." He read it, grunted and threw the paper in the fire.
And then came the Colorado nephew, and Nellie's letter.
"Dear Tom: I've had a postcard from Ray. He stopped over in Oklahoma at the Ninety Nine Ranch, and he says they can use some riders. Why don't you go, Tom? You sure can ride, and if I were you I'd get away from this town. Did you see what she had the nerve to put in the paper?"
There was more of the letter; Nellie had more or less poured out her heart, but Tom's eyes were glued to that first paragraph. After all, why not? And Bill was with the railroad now, running freight. He'd take care of him for part of the way anyhow.
But what about Clare? He had told her he was in no position to marry. She knew it, anyhow, and into the bargain he had a shrewd idea that whatever had come out, about her part in his escape she had told herself.
"Wasn't taking any chances," he reflected miserably.
She had had time, plenty of time, to get back from that way station before daylight.
"Understand you're thinking of getting married," said the Colorado boy that night, conversationally. He was deeply thrilled at being there with Tom, who had killed a man and had his horse shot under him, and was a famous rider into the bargain.
"So I hear!"
"Take it from me," said the Colorado boy, "once a fellow in our line gets married, he's through. I've seen it tried out, but I've never seen it work yet."
Lying awake in the bunk that night Tom thought over that. It wouldn't work. In a month he and Clare would be at each other's throats. If she would not save herself, he would save her.
He got up and sitting at the table in the cold, wrote her a
